Irony
by RebelByrdie
Summary: Sofia's thoughts during the search for Sara.  Angst and Femeslash.


Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or premises of the television show CSI. I make no financial gain from this writing endeavor

Rated T for Teen: Language, lots and lots of strong language.

Warning: Femeslash Ahead.

Spoiler Warning: This fic contains spoilers from the Season 7 finale, _Living Doll_.

Author's Note: I'm hoping this will break the writer's block. Inspired by RalSt's prompt of: Finding your own killer.

Irony

A CSI Ficlet

By RebelByrdie

I thought that Hell was watching the woman I am hopelessly in love with subtly eye-fuck her boss and lover. I was wrong. Hell is helplessly realizing that the woman I love is alone, hurt and a hairsbreadth from death. All at the psychotic whim of a deranged bitch that is sitting in the interrogation singing to herself. According to the so called experts, she's in her own world and may never come back. If I go dump a gallon of bleach on her, I wonder if it would bring her back to this world. Anger bubbles up inside of me and I wonder what could have been done differently. If Sara had stayed at the lab, as was her habit, maybe she would be safe. Then again, she had been grabbed in the parking garage. The PD's Parking Garage, which hilariously enough, doesn't have surveillance of any kind. Honestly, who would be crazy enough to steal a car out from under the PD's nose? No one, of course, then again, people are a different thing, aren't they? Why couldn't someone, anyone, had been there with there? If Grissom loves her so much-

Fuck Grissom. If he hadn't fucking loved her. If she hadn't loved him. I would have been able to protect her, kept her safe. Damn it, Why didn't I tell her? She should have loved me. I should have told her, should have let her know.

I almost did. Just twelve paltry hours ago, over stale cups of coffee and even staler salads at the greasy cop haunt where we'd taken a quick lunch. That had been before the big break, before we'd figured out that the miniature killer was Little Miss Bleach-a-Phobe With a Barbie Girl Name. Before we, before I knew that Sara, my Sara, was in danger. God, what I wouldn't give to go back those few hours. I would have grabbed her by both arms and dragged her close to me and made sure she'd known how I feel. She would have walked back across the street to the lab with a stars in her eyes. I would have tempted her over for a beer and talk after shift. She would have been with me and Natalie would have waited all night and day by her car. Waited in vain because Sara would have been safe, with me. She would be with me right now, sitting beside me in the interview room, grilling Natalie. Her eyes full of sparks and her razor sharp mind working Natalie's warped one over. Sara was a mental boxer, a golden gloves caliber one. Natalie would have gone down in the first round and I would have basked in the wonderful glow of Sara's little post-case grin.

How many times since she'd gone missing, since Grissom showed everyone the grisly gift Natalie had left for him, how many times since I raided that bitch's place, have I entertained that scene? Hundreds, maybe? I don't even know anymore. Probably a slightly smaller number of times then I've imagined beating the woman who had taken her to a bloody, screaming pulp. There isn't clear color or scenes in my mind's eye. Just black, white and ruby red. Bruises, broken teeth and dripping blood. Natalie's and Sara's, it all boils together in a swirling grotesque quagmire that I am up to my hips in.

Everyone, Grissom, the Sheriff, Catherine, are still going at this by the book. Police work and science and patience. I have precious little patience left and my hold on it slips through my fingers a little more every time I look though the glass at Natalie. Maybe Jim has the right idea, put that bitch in a barrel of bleach, right up to her nose and make her talk. _Make her talk_. No riddles, no songs, no pictures, no miniatures. We need to know where Sara is. The desert, that's all we know. Somewhere in the desert under a crushed car. Maybe hurt, maybe bleeding, hell maybe even dead. There are endless miles of desert around Vegas. Even with every chopper in Vegas in the air and actively searching it could take _days_. Days of frantic searching only to find my Sara dead. Dead, underneath the ragged, jagged and twisted metal and glass of some wreck that had already claimed one life. One pale hand, laying in the dust, reaching out for help that will never come, not until its far too late.

God Damn It! Was she scared? Hurting? Already Gone? I would give anything, anything at all, pray to any God, make a deal with any Devil, to be there holding Sara's hand right now. I would be able to rescue her. Hold her and never let her go again. Please, oh God please; Sara, hold on, please.

Fists against the one way mirror that stands between me and the woman that has all the answers I need. The muscles in my arm are tight and shaking. If I stare long enough maybe she'll talk. It doesn't make much sense, but neither does that little song she's been repeating over and over for the last few hours. Say something, anything. The answer to the most important question of my career is locked in the twisted and demented mind of a mad woman. Is Sara alive? I don't think I could handle her dying out there alone tonight. I have seen a lot as a Cop, as a CSI and a Detective. I just watched a woman die for God's sake. Sara's death, though. The idea that I'd never see her brows furrow over evidence, hear her laugh, or catch a tantalizing whiff of what Greg calls 'That Sidle Scent'. That idea fills me with emotions that I have no words for. I think that if I find Sara dead, gone on before I could tell her how much I feel for her. I think that my heart will shrivel and become nothing but desert dust. If she's dead, I'll die and will have helped catch my own murderer.

I think Sara would have appreciated the irony.


End file.
